


Like Hell

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6137116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodies are turning up in the City of Angels.  Stiles is a well known exorcist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Hell

I want to drown you when you drink me.

                —           Scherezade Siobhan | _Akashic_

* * *

 

Stiles leaves before dawn.  He does not notice the eyes that gleam silver in the dim light of the hotel room or the way they follow him out the door.

* * *

 

“This is the third body this week,” Allison tells him as she lifts the yellow caution tape, flashing her badge at the uniformed officer as she lets Stiles duck through to the crime scene.  “Same marks.  Same murder weapon.  Same everything.”

Stiles doesn’t even have to crouch before he smells the sulfur still lingering on the victim’s skin.  Another time and another place, he might’ve gagged.  Behind him, Allison covers her mouth and nose with one hand and holds out gloves to him with the other.  Shrugging out of his trench coat, he trades her, snapping the gloves on before kneeling.

He looks first, before touching anything.  Allison tells him they’ve already taken all of the pictures they need of the original scene.  He reaches out, tipping the victim’s face away to examine the mark beneath her left ear.  It’s a slow, inky spiral. 

Stiles snorts; he’d recognize that work anywhere. 

“I’m glad you called.” Stiles pushes back to his feet, stripping the gloves off.

“I figured since you’re all up on this occult stuff you might be able to help,” Allison looks to him, eager.  “So… can you?”

“Nope,” Stiles chirps, grabbing his coat back from her.  “Sorry.  Wish I could.”

Allison frowns.  “Stiles—“

Shrugging his jacket on, Stiles is already headed for the police line.  “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“Don’t get into any trouble!” she calls after him.

“You know me!”

“Unfortunately.”

Stiles tosses her the bird.

* * *

 

Considering it’s still daylight, the club is packed.  The heavy grind of bodies serves as little distraction as Stiles makes his way through the dense mess.  The beat pounding through the room will be stuck in Stiles’ head for days.  It’s far too hot.  Certainly too hot for the black coat weighing heavy over his shoulders, but Stiles bares it if only for the security it provides in a den such as this.

He waves at Scott, the bartender, as he sidles up.  Scott offers up a floppy, disarming grin that Stiles cannot help but return.

“The usual?” he asks.

“I’m here for work, not pleasure.” Stiles shakes his head.

“Deaton, then?”

Stiles nods.  “If he’s free.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Stiles turns away with a tight smile and a faint nod.  He watches the crowd move and dance, like a solid entity.  There is something primal in the way they work together; something inhuman.  On any other day, Stiles might be tempted to join them.

Today is not that day.

He almost wishes he’d taken the drink from Scott, if only to keep his hands busy.  He fiddles with the loose button on his coat with one hand, then the lighter in his pocket with the other. 

He’s got on itch in his chest for something with a little heat, a little smoke, but he’s been off of cigarettes for a while now.  Didn’t like the way the smell always clung to him; it is far too reminiscent of a number of characters spending their day a slave to lust in L.A.’s underground favorite _The Beacon_.  It reminds him of days when he was a similar servant to such things, of days when the scent didn’t bother him.

He can always smell them long before he sees them.  So when Erica postures next to him, eyes glinting red in the flashing lights, he knows it is her simply by the spice of clove she uses in attempts to cover her true nature.

“What’s an upstanding guy like you doing in a place like this?’ she batts her lashes.

“Not today, Satan.”

“Aw,” Erica pouts, or pretends to, leaning close and spidering her fingers up his chest.  “Little baby exorcist too busy to play with the low lives like us?”

Stiles grins.  “I promise, the second I’m done handling this issue, I’ll come find you and we can work on those demons of yours.”

Erica practically purrs, pressing flush to Stiles’ side.  “As much fun as that sounds, I don’t think your boy will like that.”

“I don’t have a boy.”

“No,” Erica breathes deep, pointedly sniffing him.  “Not a boy at all.  You’ll have to tell him I say hello.”

Lips pursing, Stiles brings his collar up and inhales, catching the telling scent of his lover still clinging there.  He sighs, tugging his jacket straight and smooth over his chest.

“Can’t have a single goddamn secret with you people.”

Erica’s laughter is cut short by Scott clearing his throat.  Twisting round, Stiles looks at him, brow up and expectant.

“He’ll see you in the back.”

“Thanks,” Stiles tips his head toward Erica.  “Some other time.”

“Only if the boss man says so,” she winks.

He pushes from the bar in order to head toward the back as she waves him off.  If there are eyes that linger on him or hands that reach, he pays them no mind.

The way back is a short one.  He rounds a corner and comes to a slow stop, hands tucked into the pockets of his ratty, worn jeans.  One moment, he is standing in front of a wall—unassuming and red in the dim light.  The next, it is a door.  It’s a heavy, metal one.  There’s no handle on it, but when Stiles gets close enough, it opens on its own, and he steps inside.

The room is a cluttered one.  Artifacts from this world and the next fill it.  Off to the side, there is a table with a basin full of what is probably holy water settled on top of it.  Deaton stands there, cleaning something old and gold.  Stiles tries not to think about it’s probable worth.

Deaton glances up as the door clicks shut behind Stiles.  He smiles and gestures to the two wingbacks at the center of the room.

“Not drinking tonight?” he asks as Stiles sheds his coat and takes a seat.

“I don’t think it’s wise to drink before using the chair,” Stiles’ smile is tight.

Deaton falters.  “Is that what you’re here for?”

Scrubbing a tired hand through his hair, Stiles sighs.  “I need to make sure _someone_ is where he belongs.”

As he towels his hands off, Deaton pads over and takes the seat across from him.  “You really think that’s wise?”

“Of course—“

“It’s the stupidest idea he’s had since that incident with the pyro last summer.” A voice drolls from the door, and Stiles’ shoulders instantly draw tight.  “Remember that, darling?  Nearly burnt your eyebrows off exorcising that bitch.”

“Well, if you would do _your fucking job_ , I wouldn’t have to do _any_ of this.  I’m still having post-traumatic flashbacks to last weekend when I had to shove a cross down that kid’s _throat_.” Stiles snaps, jaw ticking tight as he regards Deaton, refusing to turn and face the devil hovering in the doorway.  “You always let people interrupt private meetings?  Or do you just prefer halfbloods to humans?”

Deaton shrugs a noncommittal shoulder.

Twisting round in his chair, Stiles casts a narrow eyed look at the man lingering at the other end of the room.  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Heard you were planning on doing something stupid again,” he grins with sharp teeth, though it’s honestly more like a sneer, and Stiles knows he’s the only one who sees past the pretty glamor he’s wearing to the liquid black smile beneath.  “Decided to come stop you.  Unless it’s your plan to get yourself trapped between this world and the next?”

“I wouldn’t—“

“You’ve used the chair too many times,” Deaton cuts him off, tone firm.  “It’s too risky.”

Stiles scoffs.  “That’s the stupidest—“

“No,” the half demon takes a few leisurely steps closer, hands tucked into a pair of nicely pressed slacks, dressed as slick and sly as you would expect a devil to be.  “But _you’re_ stupid if you insist on attempting the impossible.”

Shoving to his feet, hand already going for his belt and the gun he keeps holstered there, Stiles rounds the old wingback.  “I swear to god—“

“ _Stiles_ ,” Deaton cautions, standing slowly.

“—I _will_ blow your fucking brains out.  Let’s see how well you regenerate from that.”

“I’d like to see you try,” the man’s face shifts to reflect Stiles’ own, mirroring his disdain right back at him. 

Stiles moves to withdraw his gun, smile wry.  “Ask and ye shall receive--”

“ _There will be no violence in my house_.” Deaton shouts over their ire, tone leaving no room for argument even as Stiles regards the halfblood across from him with nothing but hostility.  “The both of you should know better.”

“No.  You’re right, Alan.” Stiles’ tone takes on a faux sweetness as he snatches up his jacket from the back of the chair, already stalking forward toward the door—toward the shape shifting, smarmy, smug as ever devil waiting for him.  “Our apologies.  We’ll take this outside.  Won’t we, _pumpkin_?”

“Do _not_ cause a scene, Mr. Stilinski—“

“Yes, yes. Balance this, order that—blah, blah, blah.” Stiles rolls his eyes, catching his doppelganger by the wrist, ignoring the way they both shudder on contact and the way the other man is looking at him with something dark and satisfied in his eyes.  “Outside.  _Now_.”

* * *

 

Stiles has the upper hand for approximately five seconds when they walk out the backdoor of the club and into the empty alleyway.  Then he is shoved back against a brick wall, cold fingers curled tight into the starched material of his button-up, a powerful halfblood sneering in his face. 

“You’re going to get yourself _killed_.”

Stiles snorts.  “And then you’d finally get to collect my soul.  Not sure what you’re complaining about here, dude.”

“It’s not your _time_.  I’m not done with you.”

“Then _you_ ,” Stiles shoves him away, jerking his coat on and making his way toward the street.  “have _got_ to stop doing this.”

“Doing _what_?” he hisses after him.

“Stalking me,” Stiles snaps back.  “ _Interfering_.”

“Weren’t you just complaining that I’m _not_ doing my job?  But now that I am, it’s interfering?”

Stiles let’s out an aggravated sound, stopping short of the sidewalk to twist around a jab a finger against the demon’s chest.  “You’re _not_ doing your job.  You’re keeping me from doing _mine_.”

“I’m protecting you.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“ _Yes_ , Stiles, _you do_.” He sneers, rising up in an imposing manner.  “You’re reckless.  You’ve only gotten this far on _luck_ and with my _help_.  I like you, Stiles-- and I want to keep you around because, quite frankly, you’re the most interesting human I’ve come across in a long time.  But that doesn’t mean I won’t stop you from making careless mistakes.”

“Jesus,” Stiles’ mouth twists in distaste.  “Just because we’re _fucking_ , it does _not_ mean you have a right to--.”

He recognizes the anger on his own features before the other man even moves.  He’s caught by the lapels of his coat this time; the halfblood swings him around and shoves him back against the wall again, pinning him there.  Stiles’ hand drops to his gun, though he does not draw it, and he regards the demon for a quiet moment before their mouths seek each other out. 

The kiss is just about as rough as it always is.  They are all teeth, all tongue.  It isn’t so much about the pleasure of it—though, that is certainly evident in the way they cling and clutch at one another, flush and breathless—and more about the dominance of it.  They both want the same thing, crave it down to the bone, and try to find it in the way their hands grope, their bodies arch, their mouths beg. 

There is something like oblivion when they touch.  It may have something to do with the fact that, at one point a long time ago, the devil sliding his thigh between Stiles’ had worn Stiles’ skin like his own.  Stiles had been the only human to ever expel him successfully; if you consider a quick trip to hell and back successful.  It had left the two of them connected more than any demon or spirit ever had been with a vessel.

Long, cold fingers crawl up under the hem of Stiles’ shirt.  Stiles groans, burying his hand into dark hair and _pulling_.  They part, Stiles gasping for breath as a mouth presses scalding kisses down the line of his throat, and Stiles rocks against his hip.

“We’re not just fucking,” he hisses against Stiles’ skin.  “We’re never _just fucking_.”

His teeth graze a bit too sharp, and Stiles grunts.  “That still doesn’t give you the—“

“I was _worried_ , Stiles.”

“You?” Stiles snorts, then bucks as a hand curves over the bulge in his jeans.  “Worried?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes.  “Because while your suspicions are usually unreasonable paranoia, you’re _right_.”

“About?”

“Who is killing innocent college girls.”

Stiles jerks at his hair, pulling his face back in order to meet his gaze.  “What are you saying--?”

“Not here,” he shakes his head.  “I’ll tell you at your place, when we’re within the wards.”

Stiles’ lips thin, but he nods. 

* * *

 

“What do you know?” Stiles asks the instant his front door is shut.

His lover pouts, shedding his suit coat and undoing the top buttons of his shirt.  “Can’t this wait?”

“Absolutely not.”  Stiles scowls, going for the liquor cabinet and pouring them both a healthy tumbler of scotch.  “You want your dick sucked, you spill the beans first.  Not the other way around.”

“If you really want to know,” he takes the offered drink, brow lifting slow and impressed when he catches the heady scent of it.  “You have to promise you won’t go after him alone.”

Stiles frowns.

“Deal?  Or no deal?”

“Deal,” Stiles sighs.  “When did you find out?”

“Two days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was trying to take care of it before you found out.”

Stiles lips purse after he takes a pull from his glass, hip resting against the table.  “Sweet of you.”

“Last time he was earth bound, he nearly dragged you to hell with him.”

“You can’t always protect me.”

“You’re my lover,” he insists, drawing closer in a smooth, careful, calculated motion.  “ _My_ soul to collect.  I can do whatever I’d like to try and keep you alive.”

“Keep a better eye on your gates, then.”

“A little chaos is better than none at all,” he protests.

Stiles rolls his eyes; he’s heard this argument a hundred times or more.  It’s always about balance; about peace; about chaos.  “We need to send him back.  He’s far more trouble than he’s worth.”

“We will.”

“Whose skin is he walking around in?”  Stiles asks, setting his drink down in order to shed his coat, then working the buttons of his shirt open, catching the halfblood's eyes as they gleam a hungry silver. 

“Some poor redheaded college girl.  He’s been systematically taking out all of the sorority girls that accidentally summoned him.”  He murmurs, vaguely distracted as he reaches out to trail his fingers over Stiles’ pale skin as it is revealed to him, dipping his head in order to press his mouth to it.  “I can take care of it.”

“Without hurting the girl?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll need me,” Stiles shrugs out of his shirt and it pools in a mess of white at his feet. 

Fingers trace down and rest at his hips, going so tight they’ll likely leave a bruise.  “I always need you.”

“Tomorrow?” Stiles asks in a hushed breath as he’s pressed back against the edge of the table harsh enough to jar it and earn a groan from the wood. 

“Hot enough for it that you’re willing to risk another life?” he taunts.

Stiles catches him by the hair again, pulling sharp and coaxing a pleased pained hiss from him.  “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, already leaning in, their lips just ghosting.  “Don’t sneak out again.”

Stiles shudders. 

“I won’t let him have you,” he mutters.

They kiss.  He tastes hell in his lover’s mouth.


End file.
